Shieldsmaiden of Ithilien
by Serinde
Summary: Updated again. Finally. Faramir’s daughter, Isilmë, is content living in her birthplace of Ithilien for a time, but comes to long for Minas Tirith. She forsakes her homeland, but will she ever make it to the White City?
1. Born of Moonlight

Disclaimer: Umm… like everyone else, I don't own the characters of lotr… oh, how I wish I did… well the movie characters anyway. Like 'Stacey' (Cassie Claire's Secret Diaries), I have a strong, STRONG desire to do obscene things to Legolas' elfhood. And to kidnap Dominic Monaghan. And to force Viggo Mortensen to always look like he did in the film, and to change his name to Aragorn, because otherwise, he's just not worth the effort. And when I have kidnapped all three of them, I will superglue Orlando's hair and ears on, so that he can never take them off (yay! Long live elvendom!), and I will personally cut to pieces/burn Dom's hobbit wig. Ahem. Yes. And so no, I don't own Faramir, Éowyn or Aragorn (yum), but Isilmë, Raian, Darin and Mîrlómë are mine. I think that's all…  
  
Ok, on with the story. This is my first fic, so please, please, pleeeaaase be nice and review! It might be some time before I post the other chapters (due to voluminous quantities of graphics coursework), but I'll try and do them fairly quickly… that is, if people give me any nice reviews. Flames will be used to warm hands on, as central heating doesn't work properly in the study.  
  
This first chapter takes place about a year after the crowning of Elessar/Aragorn/etc. Btw, how many names can one bloke have? Honestly, some people…;-) Oh yeah, and Éowyn's just – well, read it.  
  
  
  
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Chapter 1: Born of moonlight  
  
The Lord of Ithilien smiled as he looked down at his wife, the Lady Éowyn of the Rohirrim, who held a small bundle in her arms. He took her hand, and helped her to stand by the bed. Leaning on his strong arm, she slowly walked through the bedroom door and into the ornately carven hall of the fine dwelling at Henneth Anun. She smiled as she saw the table full of anxiously waiting faces that broke into smiles and cries of joy as she walked in. Faramir took her hand, leading her to a cushioned seat on a dais at the head of the table, on which were set two other places, one seat for Faramir, and one laid in honour of the regal figure that was seated there now.  
  
'Elessar,' said Eowyn, smiling. 'Your presence here honours me greatly.' The stern-looking King of Gondor took her offered hand and kissed it, bidding her and her husband be seated on the two chairs on his side.  
  
'No more than my chance to meet the heir of this happy land,' he replied, smiling at her. The Lord Faramir coughed.  
  
'The heiress,' he said, with a twinkle in his eye. The King smiled.  
  
'Indeed,' he said. 'By what name goeth this maiden of fair Ithilien?'  
  
Eowyn looked at Faramir and smiled.  
  
'She is named Isilmë, the silver moonlight that lighteth the way… indeed, for those that travel, ere the sun is risen, to greet a newborn lady,' said Faramir. 'For whence left our messenger for Gondor? But a day since.'  
  
King Elessar's smile changed to a grim look.  
  
'I wish it were so. In truth, 'tis not of hard night riding that I come by here; rather, but two nights hence, rumour reached Minas Tirith of a danger in the northern shadows of the Ephel Duath.' A look of concern came upon Faramir's face.  
  
'Whence came this rumour? For 'twas not of the knowledge of the Lord of Ithilien. No shadow has appeared in our green lands.'  
  
'Perhaps 'twas but an illusion, for no sign have we seen yet of this rumoured evil. In faith, I cannot imagine any shadow could now roam amongst the flowers and boughs of this fair land… yet messengers came to Minas Tirith, calling for aid, telling us of an evil that they say dwells now not a day's march from the Dead Marshes.'  
  
'The Dead Marshes?' Faramir looked thoughtful. 'Fell things dwell there indeed, but none have come thence and taken abode in Ithilien. I know not of what you speak, Elessar; Ithilien has not been defiled by any creature, fell or no, since our departure from Minas Tirith, many, many months back.' The Lady Eowyn looked at the King.  
  
'Even so, it should be looked to, for if the roots of evil are cut away from the first, then it shall grow no more.' The King nodded at her.  
  
'Like to my counsel indeed. I leave tomorrow, with the company I have brought hither, of cavalry and able bowmen.'  
  
'Then let us speak no more of this evil,' said Faramir. 'There is cause for rejoicing; we shall be merry and ponder not the doom of tomorrow.' He beckoned for a steward to serve them, and they ate and talked gladly of many things, deep into the night.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Faramir stood beside the window of Henneth Annûn, looking out upon Ithilien, just as the first rays of the sun were warming the slumbering reaches of the green land. As he looked out to the north, he espied a small figure moving swiftly towards Henneth Annûn, yet a long way off. As he looked more closely he could see that it was a messenger in the gear of Gondor's soldiers. He waited anxiously for a few minutes, but although the rider drew closer, he could see that it would be a while before he reached Henneth Annûn. Sighing, he turned around and went back into the halls.  
  
Some time later, after having eaten a light breakfast, the steward came up to Faramir's seat at the head of the table.  
  
'My lord, a messenger of King Elessar has presented himself at the gate, and wishes to speak with you most urgently. Shall I bid him enter?' Faramir nodded. The steward went out of the dining room, and soon reappeared with the messenger. It was indeed he whom Faramir had seen from so far off, in the clothing of the guard of Gondor.  
  
'My lord and lady,' said the messenger, bowing before Faramir and Eowyn.  
  
'I come as a forerunner of the king's company that set out from here five days hence. The king bids me tell you that he has ridden to the borders of Greenwood the Great, and has found no trace of that which was reported.'  
  
'Then 'twas but a rumour?' said the Lady Eowyn anxiously.  
  
'So it doth seem, after a thorough search of the northern land hath yielded no clue to any evil dwelling,' replied the messenger. Faramir nodded. 'Then it is well. When arrives the king?'  
  
'He bade me say that although he would return by Henneth Annûn two days hence, his stay could not be for more than one night, as he has long been away from the White City.' Eowyn nodded understandingly.  
  
'Tis hard when a lord is away long from his people.'  
  
'Now get thee hence, and bid the servants give you a room. You may rest here until the coming of your lord,' said Faramir. The messenger bowed and left the hall. Eowyn turned to Faramir.  
  
'Happy am I that these lands are safe,' she said to her husband, looking down at the sleeping babe in her arms. Faramir nodded.  
  
'Indeed. 'Twould be an evil fate were a shadow to fall upon fair Ithilien.'  
  
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A/n: So what d'you think? Should I do more chapters? It should actually get better later on, because it fast forwards to about 20 years later.  
  
If I get anything wrong about Eldarion (later chapters…) and stuff, sorry. I've only read lotr, so I don't know if Tolkien gave any more information about him other than that he was Aragorn's son… And also, if you haven't read the Silmarillion, there might be a few little bits that don't make sense – sorry, I couldn't resist putting them in.  
  
Anyway, if you liked it – or even if you didn't – please, please, please review. Please? *does puppy dog eyes* Pleeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaassssse? 


	2. Restless

OK, some people may be disappointed with this chapter, as it does not involve what you may think the name suggests. Get away wi' ye! Purist mind at work here… well, not really. I'm sure I'll get onto that sorta stuff later. But, background first. Oh, I've just realized that I've changed the chapter name to 'Restless'… well, it used to be 'Awoken Desire'. Heehee…  
  
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Chapter 2: Restless  
  
Some years later (17 to be precise):  
  
A bowstring sang, and an arrow embedded itself deep into the bark of an old oak. A young girl, slim and golden-haired, smiled and nodded to herself, as she walked towards the tree to retrieve her arrow. Wearing a light cloak over a small dress, a quiver was slung over her shoulder, and a small piece of horn hung upon a leather thong around her neck. Sparkling green eyes and a certain bearing showed that the daughter of Ithilien's lord was a proud and spirited maiden – with a natural talent for archery.  
  
As she crouched down to replace the arrow in her quiver, she heard voices coming through the usually quiet wood. She stood up as two men came into the glade where she had been practising with her bow.  
  
'But he has already left; why would he now wish-' one of the men caught sight of her.  
  
'Ah, Mistress Isilmë,' he said, stopping and bowing. 'Good day to you.'  
  
'And to you also, Raian, and thy friend whose name is as yet unknown to me…' She said politely. The other man smiled.  
  
'Darin, lady, at your command. I am staying with Raian for a short while here at Henneth; my true home is in Gondor, in Minas Tirith.' The white city! Isilme paused a moment, thinking of the great capital of Gondor, then nodded, joining them as they walked through the forest.  
  
'Although we have heard rumour that no longer will it be known by that name of wartime, and shall become once again the Tower of the Sun,' she said.  
  
'That is true, my lady. Lord Elessar has decreed that the White City shall again pay homage in its title to Anar the fire-golden, as it bids us farewell of an eve.' Isilmë smiled.  
  
'Indeed, as it begins to even now,' said Raian, looking towards the slowly sinking flame in the west. 'We must leave thee, lady,' Isilmë smiled and waved as they departed. 'Fare thee well!'  
  
As she watched them go, Isilmë's thoughts strayed back to the white city; Minas Tirith, the Tower of the Guard, the great citadel of Gondor, west of Ithilien.  
  
~*~ Isilmë ~*~  
  
He came from the white city, of which in our halls so many great battle songs are sung; so many glorious accounts told! Even now I dream of it; a great walled citadel of stone, with coloured pennants flying proudly from glistening white battlements. Ai! So many tales of its glory and beauty I have heard in my childhood. I know it well from the stories; seven inner circles of the city, for the seven stars of Elendil, for the seven blossoms of the great white tree.  
  
One day I shall go there, so dearly do I wish it; to forsake, if only for a short while, these quiet forest glades, and ride south – south, to Gondor, where Aragorn is lord, to the fields of the Pelennor – south, to the Tower of the Guard.  
  
But if only it were so simple. How could I leave Ithilien, if my father had forbade it, my mother spoken against? In my heart, I know that they would not wish me to go, for the dangers of the journey, and for my absence from Henneth Annûn. Yet it is true that I can protect myself – I have my bow and knife; I have Mîrlómë. Minas Tirith is but three days ride from here – and yet it seems so far.  
  
I long for the white city of Gondor, for the tower of Ecthelion rising proud to greet my silver guardian Tilion, Isil's steersman, to bid farewell to Arien, guider of the sun; tall and fair is that tower, with a bright glitter of crystal upon its pearly heights. Great is my desire to see it, and to hear from afar the ringing of silver trumpets, carried clear through the air, across the fields of the Pelennor. Even stronger now is my desire to see Minas Tirith; in these peaceful glades I wish to rest no longer. To the west is my will to go; and there I shall look upon the Tower of Guard. 


	3. Mother's Love

This is back to normal btw, folks – sorry it's kinda short, but it's easier to sort the story out that way. Ugh – what a lot of Shakespeare-esque writing. I really should have modernized that bit at the end…  
  
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Chapter 3: Mother's love  
  
The sun had all but disappeared as Isilmë came to the halls at Henneth Annûn, lost deep in dreams of the proud city of Gondor. She walked slowly, unaware that her mother watched her from a window. A sadness was in Éowyn's eyes as she looked down upon her daughter. She had known that this would happen someday; Isilmë would feel a longing for a place of greater majesty and glory than the quiet glades of Ithilien, and would no longer be at peace within the land of her birth. A fiery spirit burned strongly in the daughter of the Shieldsmaiden of the North, who years before had disguised herself as a man in order to fight for her land in the battle of the Pelennor Fields. Éowyn smiled as she remembered the hobbit with whom she had shared a common plight; though both were forbidden to join with the host of Rohan as it journeyed to Minas Tirith, as two stubborn wills together they had secretly joined the company of the Riddermark, and in battle both had proven their courage and valour, and most strongly, their love for the king of Rohan.  
  
Éowyn knew that the same warrior spirit shone in Isilmë; her handling of a sword was impressive, although her skill as an archer surpassed all other talents. Éowyn saw that Isilmë wanted to journey somewhere new, somewhere different, to see new things – in particular, that which appeared in so many stories told in the great halls of Henneth; the great White City of Gondor. Yet Éowyn feared that once there, Isilmë would fall in love with Minas Tirith, a city heroic and proud, and would not wish to return to Ithilien.  
  
Sighing, Éowyn turned from the window. The time had come when the peace of Ithilien would no longer be foremost in the dreams of the daughter of its lord. 


	4. Heirloom of Gondor

1 Disclaimer: I did NOT write the Lament for Boromir (that's all the bits in italics, except for the first part), believe me. That's Tolkien's, in the two towers, near the start. Ooh, I discovered something so sweet the other day… anybody got the lotr soundtrack? Supposedly, the words to 'In Dreams' (I really don't like the choir-boy singing style, but the song's still good) were written as a poem by Tolkien; for his wife after she died. Oh, and something else – know Beren and Luthien? On his and his wife's graves, under his name is Beren, and under hers, Luthien. Isn't that just soooo sweet? *wipes away a tear*  
  
2 On with the story. Hope you're enjoying it. I was just reading through it –perhaps a bit varied in style – one minute they're saying, 'how goeth it, fair malvolio?' and the next, 'wassup babe?' Ok, slight exaggeration (slight? – I hear you say – she's gotta be kidding'– heehee. Be afraid, be very afraid of my insanity) and totally random quote examples from nowhere, but yeah. Have to try and resolve that. Anyway…  
  
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Chapter 4: Heirloom of Gondor  
  
The next day Isilmë did not, as was her usual wont, go out into the forests and remain there throughout the day, practising with her bow, or riding the green trails with her chestnut mare, Mîrlómë; instead, she wandered alone through the quiet halls of Henneth Annûn, peering into each room, looking at each tapestry or picture upon the walls. She ate silently with the servants in the morning; the evening meal she bypassed, preferring to be alone with her thoughts. It was late when she finally slept.  
  
In the middle of the night, a restless Isilmë woke. After lying still for a few minutes, she got up, and again wandered the many corridors of her home. At length, she came to the great dining hall. Slowly walking around the long tables, she came to the wall behind the slightly raised dais where her mother and father usually sat, and espied an old manuscript hanging on the wall. Hanging beside it were two pieces of a cloven horn, with ornate script running across it. She stepped closer to read the manuscript. In a fine tengwar hand, there was written what appeared to be a song. She read the title: Lament of the Winds; and below this there was written, in a less ornate script:  
  
'Indeed, 'twas as was said, by the Elfstone: we looked for him from the White Tower, but he did not return from mountain or from sea.'  
  
Isilmë was intrigued, wondering what all this meant. She started to read the words of the verse:  
  
Through Rohan over fen and field where the long grass grows  
  
The West Wind comes walking, and about the walls it goes.  
  
'What news from the West, O wandering wind, do you bring me tonight?  
  
Have you seen Boromir the Tall, by moon or starlight?'  
  
~*~ Isilmë ~*~  
  
Boromir the Tall! My uncle… it must be a lament for him, for my father's brother, who was killed at Amon Hen… See, it speaks of how he died… 'Beneath Amon Hen I heard his cry. There many foes he fought'. And it speaks of this horn – the horn of the son of Denethor.  
  
*End/Isilmë*  
  
Slowly, Isilmë reached out to the smaller piece of the great horn. She lifted it gently off the wall, and looked at it closely, running her hand along its fine silver tracery with flowing calligraphy engraved upon it. It was not heavy to hold; its surface was smooth as a sea-worn pebble. As she held it, she thought of Boromir, who had travelled with the halfling ringbearer; he would have been looking forward to his journey's end, soon to see his beautiful city again, yet he was killed before he had such a chance. Picking up the other piece, she held them together. They joined perfectly, but for a small, lightning-shaped gap, where evidently a shard had broken off. Isilmë frowned, thinking. There was something about that shape… Suddenly, she remembered; the pendant that her father had given her on her sixteenth birthday! She wore it all the time, as a good luck charm really; a small piece of white horn, with a hole bored through its centre for its cord, shaped as a perfect lightning bolt. Bringing her hand up to her neck, she lifted it out from beneath her shirt where it was hidden; she untied the leather cord, and lifted it off her neck. Slowly she brought it to the two joined pieces of the horn, and placed it in the gap. A perfect fit. Isilmë closed her eyes; so that was where the pendant came from! She had wondered about it when she received it, for though it was of a smooth texture, pure white, a beautiful piece of horn, it had not seemed the type of thing her parents would give her – not like the crystal pendant upon the silver chain that had been a gift when she had turned fourteen, nor the fine silver fillet with the sparkling clear stone in it that she wore for ceremonies, as daughter of the rulers of Ithilien. Yet she had been strangely attracted to it, and came to wear it constantly, though often hidden beneath a cloak or shirt. Now she understood its true significance – the heirloom of the house of Denethor had been cloven in two, and was no longer any use. Yet this tiny shard of it, hard yet so smooth, survived; as Isilmë wore the pendant, so the eldest child of the house of the Stewards bore still the great Horn of Gondor.  
  
  
  
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Oooh. Exciting, huh? Well, not that exciting. But I had to split this chapter 'cos it was really long, so keep going – it's still silent in the halls of Henneth… 


	5. Silent Departure

Disclaimer: Umm… don't own Boromir (ooh… that would be nice), didn't write first part in italics (Rauros falls bit – from same lament in previous chapter, Tolkien's)… any more? Didn't invent the Horn of Gondor… heehee. No Merry, be strong! Don't let yourself be fooled by him! He can't tell you from Pippin! (don't worry, the secret diaries have tainted my innocent young mind)  
  
Disclaimer for disclaimer: I don't own the secret diaries, I don't own Pippin, I don't own Merry (bless his furry li'l feet), I don't have anything to do with conceiving of the idea of Boromir's hobbity flings. Yuck…. Be strong, Merry, strong!  
  
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Chapter 5: Silent Departure  
  
As she replaced the pieces of the cloven horn, tucking her pendant safely away, Isilmë thought of the plan that had been slowly forming in her mind; to leave for the White City secretly, leaving a note that said she had gone to the halls at Cair Andros where Talor the swordsmaster lived, to spend some time improving her skill.  
  
A sudden, new resolve flared in Isilmë. She would go to Minas Tirith alone – with the memory of Boromir's journey would she go, and she would look upon the White City, just as he had wished to. Alas for Boromir! Yet she would take this small part of his cloven horn, carrying it as did he, on her journey to the Tower of the Guard.  
  
Glancing back one last time at the script as she began to run back to her room, her eye caught the last line:  
  
'O Boromir! The Tower of Guard shall ever northward gaze  
  
To Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, until the end of days.'  
  
She stopped, gazing at it for a moment, before turning swiftly and running lightly back to her room. There, she quickly began to fill a saddlebag with clothes and food. She took out pen and paper, and in her scruffy script she wrote a note to her parents:  
  
My lord and lady,  
  
I write so that you do not fear for me, or worry that all is not well, for it is; I have left Henneth of my own choice. For the dwelling at Cair Andros I ride, to practise there with the swordsmaster, as I fear that perhaps my skill wanes. I also wish to visit the Ship of Long-Foam again; to visit the island and some of the people that dwell upon the western bank. I plan to stay there for a while; do not worry if I send no messengers, 'tis likely I shall be worked so hard that I have no free time to do so!  
  
I shall travel alone, and take Mîri; it is not a lengthy journey, and I shall leave early, as the sun rises. Do not be angry, please father, that I leave and ride alone; I need to escape Ithilien for a while. Fear not, I shall not stay so long away that ere I return I can best Talor!  
  
Nam'rië, and love always,  
  
Isilmë.  
  
xxx  
  
She left the note upon her bed, then gathering her things, went quietly down to the door, and outside, towards the stables. As she came near to them, she heard a whickering from Mîrlómë, who had heard her coming.  
  
'Shhh, girl,' she said, going into the mare's stall, 'you'll wake the others.' Mîrlómë was restless after a day without a ride; usually she would have spent a full morning exploring the ever-changing trails of the forest with her rider. Yet now, at this late hour, Isilmë saddled and bridled the horse, tying her saddlebags onto the pommel, and wrapping the mare's hooves around with old rags to muffle the sound as she moved.  
  
'Quiet now, ok?' The mare looked at her, then pushed at the door to her stall with her nose. Isilmë opened it, and led her out into the courtyard cautiously. She stopped Mîrlómë by the gate, and swung herself smoothly up into the saddle.  
  
The sun was just beginning to show itself in the east as Mîrlómë walked out of the courtyard, through the archway with its open gates. Trotting on, they came down through the few trees to the edge of the forest. Isilmë turned for a moment, looking back at her slumbering home amidst the pale flowers and the trees. She took a deep breath; then turning Mîrlómë swiftly and whispering to the horse, she galloped off along the well-worn forest track.  
  
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A/n: Heehee. Can't tell I'm into horses, can you? Well, after that very exciting chapter… ahem… well, I suppose you could call it exciting… you must be on the edge of your chair, gripping the mouse with sweat-covered palms… if you're not, I don't know what's wrong with you. Honestly. Complete lack of emotion… go see a psychiatrist! (On second thoughts, don't – I've been informed by a number of my friends that I'm the one who needs a psychiatrist…) 


	6. The crossing at Cair Andros

Disclaimer: same as before; don't own Gondor (wow – now that's an idea…), don't own Ithilien, etc.  
  
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Chapter 6: The crossing at Cair Andros  
  
As she rode, Isilmë thought of her father and mother. Would they believe her note, and leave her to supposedly train at Cair Andros? She knew that Faramir would probably believe her, but as for her mother, she was not so sure. Éowyn always understood her daughter's mind readily; it was possible that she might notice the false tone of the note. She didn't like to lie to her parents – but there was no other way. If she had told them, they would not have let her go, or if they had, she would have been travelling with a large escort, arriving in Minas Tirith in state, as the princess of Ithilien. And if she had told them nothing, they would have sent out search parties – although they would not have found her before she came into Gondor, her parents would have been so concerned for her. Sighing, Isilmë turned her thoughts back to the road ahead.  
  
It was midday and the sun was at its highest when at last, as Mîrlómë trotted through the trees, Isilmë saw the island of Cair Andros, marking the border between Gondor and Ithilien. It was not large, but shaped in such a way that it looked like a ship, its prow jutting out into the swift waters of Anduin as it flowed ever down towards the sea. The dwelling here that had been built soon after the great war was on this eastern bank; small wooden bridges went from each bank to the middle of the island, and then out again onto the other side.  
  
Isilmë jumped lightly down from Mîrlómë's back before they came out from the trees, into the open; although most of the small community of Cair Andros was out in the woods or fields, she needed to be careful – she wanted no one to recognize her as she crossed into Gondor. Tying Mîrlómë's reins loosely to a tree, she walked closer to the bridge by the river. She could see no one about – now would probably be her best option, unless she waited for nightfall.  
  
Returning to where Mîri was waiting, Isilmë untied the horse. Throwing the hood of her grey cloak over her blonde hair, she walked out from under the trees, past the dwellings, and towards the island. The noisy waters of Anduin sprayed and foamed as they crashed onto the rocks of Cair Andros, far below the sturdy wooden bridge built to withstand whole companies of horsemen. Isilmë walked boldly along the bridge, praying that no one would see her – if she was recognized, the princess of Ithilien would have no choice but to stay awhile by the banks of the great river, and word would surely get to Henneth Annûn of her visit.  
  
'Hie! You there!' A voice suddenly cut into her thoughts. Her heart sank, as she slowed down, halfway across the second bridge to the western bank. She turned her head slightly towards the speaker, only slightly showing her face.  
  
'And who would you be, stranger, to not stop but for a moment in our friendly dwelling?' Isilmë groped wildly for an answer that would not be rude, but could get rid of him quickly. She did not know how she had managed to miss him, for he stood on the island, with his hands on his hips. An oldish man, he seemed, gruff and stern.  
  
'I… well…' The speaker came closer.  
  
'A maiden, art thou? Well…' she could feel him looking closely at her as Isilmë struggled to keep from turning and glaring defiantly at him.  
  
'I'll trouble thee no more,' he said finally, 'if thy journey demands swiftness, as it would seem.' Again, with her face hidden behind her hood, she felt him looking at her keenly. She inclined her head slightly, and heard a snort of exasperation from the man behind her.  
  
'Fare thee well, then, mistress. Good day to ye,' he said, and she heard him turn and walk back across the bridge to the opposite bank. With a sigh of relief, she clicked to Mîrlómë to move on, and upon reaching the western shore, she mounted again.  
  
From the opposite bank, Talor the swordsmaster smiled to himself, shaking his head as he watched the girl and horse hurry up the steep paths through the rocks on the eastern shore. So she had left at last. Always an independent child Isilmë had been, and her kindly godfather had been there to see her grow up, from before she had even learnt to string a bow. He chuckled again, watching her spur on her bright chestnut mare, her hood falling back onto her shoulders to reveal her long blonde hair streaming in the wind, before turning back into the trees as she galloped off into the fields of Northern Gondor.  
  
~*~Isilmë~*~  
  
Finally, he let me be! I am so relieved now, that I have finally passed through the island of longfoam without being recognized. I feared that he was going to push me further, about my journey and destination – if he had, I know not whether I could have concealed myself. 'Tis strange, he seemed somehow familiar… though I cannot think why. Yet of that I need worry no longer. I ride in the green land of Gondor!  
  
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A/n: btw, the great war would be the war of the ring… and hope you don't mind if I start calling her the princess of Ithilien… I know she's not really, but what else can I call her? The lady? Nope. Sounds wrong. The mistress? Sounds even worse. Daughter? Ugh. Princess it is. Don't complain unless you've got a better idea. Mean, aren't I? Heehee.  
  
Please, if you've read this, review for me! I just wanna know if ppl like it… thanx to those who have already! (I don't mind if you do it again, it'll make me feel happier!) 


	7. Night in the Forest

Disclaimer: I disclaim everything that I would need to have disclaimed to protect myself from losing a court case and having to pay lots of money if anyone decided that I had done a long word beginning with 'p' that I don't know how to spell…

Chapter 7: Night in the Forest

It was getting dark over the fields and gently undulating land as Isilmë drew near to the edge of a forest, after a continuous day of hard riding. Both her and Mîrlómë were weary, and needed rest. Isilmë had been determined not to stop until they reached the great Greenway, the road south which eventually came to Minas Tirith. But it grew late now, and they were coming to a forest.

Concerned, Isilmë brought Mîrlómë down to a walk. They should have come to the road by now – yet they drew nigh to a forest. Perhaps she had missed it along the way. But still, their path should have cut straight across the great road… perhaps it was through this forest, although she could recall no mention of it on the great maps hanging in the dining hall at Henneth.

The thought of her home made her pause and remember. How would her parents be feeling now? Would they accept her leaving? She felt guilty as she thought of them, of her departure, without even saying goodbye…

***Henneth Annûn***

'She's old enough to look after herself, Faramir,' said Éowyn. 'You knew as well as I did that she would do it one day.' Faramir paced the floor of their chamber, Éowyn sitting upon the bed, unbraiding her hair.

'I know. But…' he sighed. 'I just don't believe that what she has written is truly what she has left to do. Her skill with a sword leaves nothing more for Talor to teach her, yet she tells us that she wishes to improve!' He looked out of the window in exasperation. Éowyn smiled sadly, shaking her head. 'We'll not see her awhile, I fear. 'Tis true what you say. I am sure that she leaves not for Cair Andros; or at least, that be not her final destination.' Faramir looked directly at his wife.

'Then whither does she go?' She brought her clear eyes to his and held his gaze just as steadily.

'To Gondor, Faramir. To the White City she has gone.' Faramir looked down. 'Alas; I feared it so, that she would leave us one day for Minas Tirith. I remember, when the stories were told, she would question us intensely of it.' Éowyn smiled again, remembering her daughter as a little girl.

'And she always loved the tale of the Battle of the Pelennor.' She looked down, somewhat ashamedly, yet laughing.

'As did I,' said Faramir, chuckling and raising Éowyn's chin so that her laughing eyes looked into his. 'The tale of our wild shieldsmaiden of Rohan; I remember it well.' Éowyn stopped laughing, and looked at him seriously.

'Ai, that I was. And the same fire burns within her, Faramir; she wishes to be independent, and seeks glory, and the chance to prove something to herself.' And so we must let her go; she could not have stayed in Ithilien all her life. Fair though it is, and we are content, this land is one of peace, and calmness. She wishes for more than that.' Faramir nodded.

'Yet of a sudden has my valiant shieldsmaiden lost her pride, her love of battle?' Half-teasing, he looked into her eyes. Éowyn looked thoughtful.

'My pride, no. Yet my love of battle, 'tis true. Now is war's taste bitter; I hunger no longer for glorious deeds and honour. To me now are these glades more beautiful than any shining sword; the peace of the woods a lovelier song than any trumpet's cry.' She looked at Faramir with clear grey eyes. 'And I love thee, my lord. A short while with you is worth an eternity of brave and courageous deeds remembered in song.' Faramir looked at Éowyn with love in his eyes. Taking her hand, he said: 'And to be with you? 'Tis a joy forever,' and he took her in his arms, kissing her tenderly.

~*~Isilmë ~*~

Isilmë shivered. She had brought Mîrlómë into the forest, as thunderclouds were gathering overhead, and the trees, although not totally covering them, would provide more protection than the open fields. She had retraced her tracks, searching for the road in vain; now she had given up the idea of finding it, and planned simply to ride south, until she rode across it.

She shivered again, though wrapped in her grey cloak. She was sitting beneath a large oak, with Mîrlómë by her side, looking out at the grey clouds as the sky swiftly grew darker. Thinking for a moment, she got up and untied the horse, springing swiftly up onto her back.

'The storm brews worse than I thought,' she said to herself, then to the mare: 'we'll go deeper into the forest; better protection will there be there than so close to the edge of the trees.' They walked slowly on along the narrow trail they had found leading through the trees.

*****

An hour later, Isilmë was deep in the forest; the tall, dense trees blotted out much of the sky above, yet much rain still came through to the forest floor. Isilmë was soaked to the skin; Mîrlómë's mane plastered to her neck. The wind blew angrily in the trees; Isilmë was shivering.

Suddenly, she heard a shout amidst the gale; it sounded as though someone was behind her on the trail. Soon after came the sounds of a horse neighing and a drumming of many hoofbeats upon the ground. It sounded like quite a large company; maybe one of the outlaw groups of the forests in northern Gondor. Without a second's thought, Isilmë spurred Mîrlómë on into a gallop. As the mare thundered on through the trees, Isilme could hear the sound of a horn calling, not far behind. An answering call came swiftly through the trees to her left; a panic took Isilmë and she urged the horse on, through the driving rain and howling gale. Branches lashed against Isilmë's face; she could hear the shouts growing ever more clear behind her. Taking a chance, she turned the mare into the trees to the left of the path; bringing her down to a brisk trot, she rode towards a large oak with a wide bole, and stopped Mîrlómë behind it. Sliding to the ground, gasping for breath a little, she closed her eyes for a moment. She realized now that maybe her flight hadn't been such a good idea; she should at least have waited until she had a view of her pursuers.

~ Isilmë ~

They could have been a patrol of Gondor, I suppose… yet, if so, why would they have been out on such a night? The gale lessens a little now, yet it rains even harder. I know not why I fled so quickly; perhaps it was the chance that they could have been outlaws. Yet that was, perhaps, unwise… soldiers from Gondor could have directed me to the Greenway. Although would they have let me continue alone on such a night? There would be no hope of my concealing my true heritage in Minas Tirith had I been sent in with guards. 'Tis too late now, anyhow. I shall rest here tonight.

~~~~~~

A/n: I'm sorry for the undulating bit. I had to fit that word in somewhere… and damn that bloody film for making it impossible to put the words 'final' and 'destination' into a sentence together and not sound horror movie-ish…

And OK, so the Faramir/Éowyn bit didn't go too well… never mind. Hey, at least I tried… it's kinda difficult when there's a kid involved. It makes romance tough, if you're talking parents. Thanx for reviews everybody, sorry it took ages to get up. Whew. Graphics all done, aya! And survived Spain… yup, you're lucky this author's still alive! Will try to write more quickly… style is kinda fluctuating tons, but never mind. :)

Please review, ppl! Please? Pleeeaaaaaaase? Will try to write more quickly, I promise…


	8. Taken in the night

AAAAAAAAAARGH!!! THE GAP ADVERT!!! HE SOLD HIMSELF!!! NOOOOOO!!! *restrains crazy self* Has anyone seen it? I can't believe my orlando would do that to me… kate beckinsale! Grrrr… I will get her one day…

Ahem. Hi everyone… quite literally, every – one of you, just to apologize for not updating for ages… if anyone was actually following the story. We are getting soooo much coursework now… *sob* I hate GCSEs. Just what *is* the point, other than to make our lives as fifteen year-olds hell? One day I may murder my biology or chemistry teacher… Actually no, I'll murder my biology teacher – the class would probably pay me to do it – but I'll be lucky if I can get within a five-metre radius of the chemistry woman and return alive to tell the tale, after that last test… (You can tell how much I love chemistry, eh?) 

Anyway, I'm gonna update more often now… for all two? three? …of you reading it… if I've lost you, I may as well give up… *looks at reviews* Ah, Penn – Thanks for that. :) Reviews used to be my life source, but I gave up on that because I wasn't getting any. Oh well.

Ooops, forgot disclaimer. Ahem.

Disclaimer: I don't own… wait, there's nothing in this chapter that I don't own! I shall be rich!!! MWAHAHAHA- Oh, dammit… Druadan… K, I don't own Druadan Forest… or Gondor… or Boromir… so maybe I was wrong, there is quite a lot of stuff I don't own in this chapter. *sniff*… *yells* I NEED TO OWN THINGS!!! I own Isilmë. Yay. I OWN ISILMË AND MÎRLÓMË. Heehee. Lalala. On slight high at moment, but wrote this chapter before, so it should be ok and insanity-free… *goes off singing… "the road goes e-ver on and on, down from the do-or where it be-gan…" Ack. I scare even myself sometimes. ;)

~*~*~*~*~

Chapter 8: Taken in the night

Isilmë sat on the ground at the base of the tree, her cloak wrapped tightly around her, with Mîrlómë standing at her side. The weather had calmed itself now; the wind no longer howled, and the rain was lighter. Yet as it grew later, Isilmë began to feel the cold, and could not stand it any more. With chattering teeth she stood and untied Mîrlómë, deciding to keep moving through the night, as otherwise she would not be able to stand the cold. The trees waved silently above her, tall, dark and menacing, as she rejoined the path. As the moon came out from behind a cloud, she knelt down to examine the wet ground. The hoofprints of the band were clear; they were all on horseback, about fifteen of them. She looked up at the moon thoughtfully. There would be almost no point continuing deeper into the forest, as she had almost certainly missed the road, yet she somehow felt safer amongst the trees. Menacing though they were, they offered at least some protection from the elements; she would be too exposed out on the wide plains. Maybe it would be better to stick to the forest track, and find some other road south – surely there would be some path cutting south through the forest. Sighing, she stood up and took Mîrlómë's reins, leading her slowly off down the muddy track. How had she gotten into this mess? Just a simple three day ride to Gondor, and she was lost by the first night. Maybe she had been too impulsive, leaving alone… she brought her hand up to the pendant hanging round her neck.

"Ai, the lord Boromir would surely have not ever been in a situation such as this," she said out loud, "Nor any other of our house." Shaking her head, Isilmë continued down the path.

Suddenly, she spotted a light, a tiny flicker, ahead of her. She stopped Mîrlómë, frowning. A minute later, she was about to move on again, discarding it as a figment of her imagination – yet suddenly again came the light, a little way ahead and to the left of the path. Taking Mîrlómë some way off the track to the right, she tied her up, just hidden from the path through the trees. She placed a finger to her lips, smoothing the horse's dampened mane gently. Mîrlómë whickered softly. Then Isilme returned to the path, pausing behind a tree as she came to it. Looking out, she saw no movement, save the flight of a hunting owl on silent wings. Slowly, she stepped out into the path. Silence. She crossed it, and passed swiftly and silently into the trees on the other side. Now, she could hear faint voices, and saw that the light was indeed the flicker of firelight upon the trees. Slowly and cautiously, she approached the place where the sound came from. As she grew nearer, they grew ever louder, until she could recognise different voices, evidently discussing a journey. She could not discern exactly what they were saying; even her sharp ears could not catch all their words. Yet she picked up a few words… forest… long road… king… Mirkwood… Mirkwood! She knew of that place. Of old, Greenwood the Great, yet renamed when it was learned that the necromancer of Dol Guldur again inhabited the fortress. Mirkwood… She remembered one who came from there, who had visited Ithilien once… An elf, tall and strong, a friend of the king's. Yes, that was right. He came to Henneth once, with a small band of the fair folk, and the lord of Ithilien had welcomed him with a great feast. Her father said that he was a peerless archer; she remembered shyly telling him of her love of the bow when they had been introduced. He had smiled, and then spoken with her much throughout that meal, promising to give her a lesson one day when he returned to Ithilien. For he stayed but one night, and the six year-old had not seen him again; he and his band had left not long after dawn the next morning. But she had always remembered him, for some reason; maybe it was the fact that he was of Elven kind, for Isilmë had always loved the fair folk, and was ever curious of their ways.

"So, does our path take us straight now?" The voices slowly broke back into her thoughts. Isilmë started; she had all but been lost in her childhood memories. She again strained to hear the men's exact words, to gain just some clue of their identity, but still could not; they spoke too softly. She heard a sound in the trees off to her left, a rustling noise. Moving in its direction, she saw ten or more horses tied up, some dozing, some restlessly shifting their hooves. 

Moving away from the horses, she cautiously crept forward a little more. Looking through a gap in the dense shrubbery, she beheld the scene: a party of fifteen men or more around a large fire, some seated, conversing quietly, some sleeping, weapons sheathed at their sides. They all wore dark cloaks – grey, brown, or green – and sat close to the slowly dying fire. Isilmë shivered. It made her feel colder, as she looked at the glowing fire, as she could feel none of its warmth. Well, there was nothing more she could do – she had probably been right with her original guess; the party appeared to be some outlaw band, passing swiftly through the forest. There was no way she could get nearer to their fire without great risk of discovery; although they were at ease, the men seemed tense, those that spoke speaking in hushed and serious tones.

Sighing, Isilmë turned away from the warmth of the fire. Suddenly, a hand came down over her mouth from behind; a firm grip pinned her arms to her sides.

'Mmmph!' Isilmë tried to cry out unsuccessfully, twisting to face her attacker. The fire cast a flickering light on his hooded face; he looked at her intently as Isilmë tried to discern his features in the shadow of his hood.

'So, we've picked up a spy along the way…' came a low voice. And then, 'An archer, art thou?' He said, as he saw her eyes flick sideways to her bow on her back. After a moment of studying her closely, he took his hand away from her mouth. 'Will you tell me your name, and your business in Druadan Forest at such an hour?' he asked neutrally. It had taken Isilmë but a moment to recover from her shock, which had turned first to fear, then anger. She looked at him with her mouth closed mutinously, and tried to struggle against his arms, but his grip was firm. She had been right to flee the first time she had heard their horn calls; if only she had not come towards the fire! This stranger was almost certainly one of the outlaw band; she saw a pile of firewood he had collected that he had obviously been bringing to the camp, and put down when he saw her. Isilmë thought quickly. If she revealed who she was, or even just that she was a girl, things could get worse. As it was, she would have more chance of escape.

After waiting a moment, without a response, the stranger shrugged his shoulders. 'Then no matter. You shall accompany us tonight.' Taking a length of rope, he proceeded to tie her hands tightly behind her back. 

Suddenly, Isilmë kicked out towards him, catching his shin, and springing up, tried to run away. Yet she was not quick enough, for the stranger, after buckling slightly, sprang forward and caught her arm. Isilmë tried in vain to shake him off, then hit out behind her with her free hand, but he caught her wrist easily and held it behind her back. Twisting, Isilmë struggled free of his strong grip and turned to face him, sizing up her opponent in a moment. He was tall and well-built, yet quick on his feet – he had also evidently been well-trained in hand to hand combat. More than a match for her, for though Isilmë was lithe and quick on her feet, it had been long since she had ever faced an opponent such as this. At Henneth Annûn, she had been trained well, beating all but Talor her godfather and teacher. Yet as he grew older and less agile, he could no longer train with her on hand to hand, having to fall back on his skill with the sword. Although he still taught her, there was now no one with whom she could actually practise; the boys who trained left Ithilien early for Gondor to improve their skills and spend a short period as a soldier or guard in Minas Tirith, and the girls were not concerned with such things. 

Taking advantage of her distraction, as she was remembering her home, the stranger took the opportunity to attack, trying to catch her other arm. Isilmë hit out at him, and he stepped back. Suddenly, he pretended to lunge forward at her; Isilmë fell for his trick and bent down to duck the blow. In an instant, he had straddled her, pinning her arms to her sides as she lay gasping for breath on the ground. She could see now the benefit of practising with a real opponent – she knew nothing of the tricks and deceptions of unarmed combat, and had been totally unprepared for his feint.

'A fighter, too,' said the stranger in his low voice, still holding her down. Isilmë had no more strength to fight back again with; he was too strong.

'Things will go better if you do not try to escape again,' he said, this time tying her hands together tightly. He took out his dagger and pointed it at her throat, gesturing for her to stand. 'Walk.' Isilmë, wet, cold, bruised and exhausted, slowly stood, wary of the dagger at her throat. He directed her away from the fire, towards the horses. Stopping by a black stallion, he whistled, a piercing note in the night, then spoke again to her, cutting her bonds. 

'Up.' Too exhausted to run, Isilmë slowly pulled herself up onto the horse's back. The cloaked stranger went to the tree next to the horse and untied the reins. Men now started appearing through the trees from the direction of the fire. One, cloaked like her captor, came up to him, looking questioningly at Isilmë.

'A traveller whom I caught spying. I believe he may have followed us from the city. He'll say nothing, and he's dangerous. We shall take him with us and question him there.' Isilmë, draped over the horse's neck, smiled weakly. So they still thought she was a man. Better that than they discover her true identity; at least they would not try to ransom her.

'He'll ride with you?' asked the other man.

'Aye, Arvedui can take us both.' The man nodded, then hurried off to find his own horse. Turning back to his horse, the leader of the band swung himself up behind Isilmë with ease. Binding her hands together behind her back again, he called to the men.

'We ride non-stop now 'til Mirkwood's boughs. Keep pace and stay on the track.' Isilmë felt his horse start to move beneath her, the rest of the company following behind, as she slowly drifted into unconsciousness.

~*~*~*~*~

Help, I can't think of decent chapter names…. Hmmm. It's getting there, albeit slowly… Although, that *was* a long chapter. Not very good at writing stuff about physical fighting and stuff, I'm afraid. But hope you like it… next chapter on its way soooon, I promise. Eek, I didn't know it would take so long to move on… o dear. I think I'm only writing to people I know now, because no one else finds this… not that they ever read it, anyway… never mind.


	9. Attacked

Apologies for extended, horrifically long stagnation of this story ^_~ This will not happen again. It will NOT. Dammit, I will have willpower! 

Disclaimer: I love lord of the rings. Unfortunately, that doesn't automatically mean I own it. Although, if the plan for world domination I attempted yesterday had excluded the sheep, it would. But of course, it didn't. So I don't. Damn that sheep. ^_^ 

Chapter 9: Attacked 

They were no longer moving when she awoke. Wondering where she was, Isilme slowly opened her eyes to find that she was sitting on the ground, with her back against a tree. The cold, grey light of morning came through the leaves. As she slowly became aware of her surroundings, her mind registered voices nearby. 

Tiredly, the girl tried to lift her head. She was stiff and aching from the fight and the ride last night. Or had it been last night? She found herself completely disorientated, barely able to tell what time of day it was. Remembering what had happened, she tried to stand, only to discover that her hands were tied around the back of the tree. Her blade was gone, along with her bow and quiver. But she was too tired to be angry. Isilmë wondered how long they had been travelling - she remembered nothing of their journey but a continuous drifting in and out of consciousness, and the steady rhythm of the horse moving beneath her. 

She heard the sound of footsteps nearby. A figure appeared. As he came closer she realised that it was the same man as she had been riding with, now coming towards her holding something in his hands. Isilmë tried to stand again desperately; it was no use. 

'Do not try,' he said calmly, stopping a metre from her. 'We will be moving off again shortly. Meanwhile, will you eat?' He held out some bread wrapped in dry leaves. Isilmë turned her head away defiantly, as best she could. She had nothing but pure hatred and a burning anger for this stranger who had ruined her plans. Eat the food offered by her captors? No. 

He stayed there for a moment, then rose and left. Why? Thought Isilmë, closing her eyes again. Why did this have to happen? Just one, short ride She felt a stone on the ground behind her as she pondered her fate, picking it up she turned it round in her bound hands, trying to cut at the rope. She didn't even know where she was although they had said before they had caught her that they were bound for Mirkwood. Mirkwood! She angrily flung the stone down. So far from Minas Tirith And without Mirlomë the intelligent mare would have managed to loose herself when her mistress hadn't returned, Isilmë had no doubt about that, but without a horse she had no chance of escape - on discovery of her disappearance, they would easily catch her up, no matter how long ago she had left. 

She wanted to scream out loud, as her mind was. Her journey had been so foolish. It was her fault, after all. Overwhelmed with the mixture of anger, fear and frustration, she slumped forward, her golden hair falling out from her hood and over her face. A single tear slowly slid from under her closed lashes. 

~*~*~*~*~*~ 

As he returned slowly through the trees to the makeshift camp, Eldarion thought of his mission. His instructions had been to ride north, until Thranduil's halls, where he would warn the king if they had not located the outlaw band they hunter. If they had, the patrol could rest awhile in Northern Mirkwood before taking their prisoners back to Gondor. 

The journey had been fairly uneventful thus far. He had decided not to question the prisoner of his knowledge of the band; he doubted there would have been anything more to be gained than long, defiant silences. But any information would have been useful... The fact that they had as yet seen no sign of their quarry, apart from the one they held prisoner, worried him, as the thought of the destruction and havoc they had already wreaked upon several small homesteads and villages, from Gondor through to the southern reaches of Mirkwood, was ever in his mind. 

Yet they had seen not a trace of the reported aggressors. It was rumoured that the outlaw band had grown particularly strong and had strayed so far as both to the south of Druadan Forest's borders and to the southern reaches of Mirkwood. The elite patrol with him as its leader had been chosen to ride through Druadan, sweeping north into Southern Mirkwood, to locate and capture the group, which had attacked several small villages and homesteads, slaying or driving out the occupants and taking their property. The swiftest forerunners of the homeless villagers had arrived in Minas Tirith three days since; the patrol had been sent out immediately to try and locate the band. Leaving at sunset the same day as the arrival of the messengers, they had now passed north, through the forest of Druadan and across the Entwash, then still northwards, leaving behind the falls of Rauros and Sarn Gebir on their right. Across Anduin, just below its meeting with the Limlight, and finally the gallop across the wide plains of the Brown Lands stretching up to the borders of Mirkwood. It had been a long ride, though they had completed it sooner than he had expected. Perhaps because they had passed through Druadan more quickly than had been planned. 

This reminded the young man of the lone figure he had caught watching them, who had refused to tell his name or business. A grim smile crossed Eldarion's face. He had been quite a fighter, though no match for the king's son. And evidently, their scuffle had exhausted him more than it had Eldarion; he had not fully awoken throughout the full three days' journeying to Mirkwood. Perhaps because his had been a long journey beforehand, or merely that he had not engaged in combat for a while. Whichever, it was likely that he was up to no good in Druadan; indeed, he might well have been one of the band they were seeking, spying on them. It was well that they had taken him captive; he could have later posed a threat to the patrol. 

He passed the sentry and reached the clearing where the patrol rested, surveying his men. An uneasy silence hung over the group; no one slept. They had built no fire, not wishing to announce their presence. With a frown, Eldarion turned and went to check on the horses. Arvedui stood alert, head erect, unmoving. The others were shifting restlessly. Arvedui turned as Eldarion went to him, scanning the trees around them as the black horse nuzzled at his hand. Not a single bird sang in the trees, not a branch creaked. The forest was unnaturally quiet. 

Isilme opened her eyes as she heard a slight rustle of leaves in front of her. She focussed at once on the source of the sound. A second later, she could just make out a brown-clad figure crouched beneath a tree, just hidden by leaves in front of her and to the right. 

Mystified, Isilme watched as it moved slowly forwards, in the direction the leader of the band had left in. Suddenly aware of her vulnerability - nothing hid her from anyone within five metres or less - a sudden fear came over her. What if someone saw her? She tensed, trying to breathe quietly, silent praying she wouldn't be noticed as she huddled back against the tree. The figure continued to creep forwards. She could see the dagger at his waist and the bow in his hand; now he slowly and carefully drew an arrow from the quiver on his back. Isilme's mouth fell slowly open as he fitted it to his bowstring and paused, intent on his target, ready to draw it back. Isilme had to catch herself from crying out loud; the instinct to warn was strong. But as she watched him standing motionless, she realized that he was waiting for some kind of signal to shoot - he was not working alone. This was a carefully orchestrated attack... In the split second it took her mind to register the piercing whistle that sounded through the trees, the man had fired. 

A thump, the whistle of another arrow, and shouts arose from the camp. The figure sprang forward, notching a third arrow to his bow string, and disappeared from Isilme's sight. The clash of arms rang out; a brief moment of paralysis and then Isilme was struggling hard at the bonds imprisoning her, half-terrified, half-calm, but with a growing sense of urgency. She could see nothing but vague shapes and slight movements through the trees; she was thankful to be away from the fighting, but still was mindful of her dangerous position. If she managed to free herself, even if she could not escape afterwards, at least she would be able to hide from the band's attackers, as likely just as ruthless and cold-hearted as she had no doubt her own captors were. She winced in pain as she pulled too hard on one side, wrenching her other arm back hard and twisting her shoulder in the process. Cursing her own clumsiness, she nudged the shoulder with her chin, eyes widening in frustration as a bolt of pain coursed through her entire arm. It was not too serious - she had done herself similar injury many times before in her swordsmanship lessons - but it would make life difficult for a while. With a grimace, she resumed tugging at the ropes, ignoring the continuing pain. If only they had not been tied so tightly! She scanned the trees for any sign of danger as she twisted and pulled. 

The shouts continued, growing even louder. Suddenly, an arrow whipped past her face, so close she could have touched it. She shrank back against the tree in fear, her body rigid, and slowly turned her head a fraction to locate its origin. A tall figure holding a bow casually in one hand stepped out from the trees to her right and walked in the wake of his arrow, pausing for a moment to consider Isilme. The girl looked up at him from under her hood, her eyes wide. An elf. 

As the figure strode off, Isilme realised that that arrow had not been meant for her... Indeed, it had probably reached the target it sought. She turned as another pair of green-clad archers appeared and melted back into the foliage just as quickly on the other side of her clearing, hands at their knives with barely a glance for Isilme. She could only stare in confusion and surprise. Elves? They must be deeper into Mirkwood than she had hoped... But what was their purpose? It would have been characteristic of the reclusive race to stay well back, avoiding taking sides in the affairs of men... But no. They aided them. One group, at least, though she could not say which. 

Thoroughly confused, Isilme was jolted from her thoughts in a sharp reminder of her injury as she subconciously tried to move her arm forward. Closing her eyes for a moment in pain, she realised suddenly that the woods were silent once more. Apparently the fighting had stopped. 

A moment later, a man appeared, walking towards her, wiping his blade on his cloak. From his similar garb to her earlier opponent, she guessed that he was from the first group. When he reached her, he went behind the tree, and Isilme felt the rope holding her wrists together go limp. She brought her free arms forward slowly in relief, testing her injured arm with her hand, ignoring the intense pain, as the man came round to face her. She had no intenting of trying to run; she ached so much that she would probably had tripped and fallen flat had she done so, and besides, he looked like he could easily outrun her. She kept her head down as he considered her, trying to work out what the prisoner was thinking, or planning. Her hood still hung low over her head. 

After a while: 'On your feet,' he said gruffly. She slowly rose, her every part of her body protesting the whole way, and as she stepped forward he went behind her to retie the ropes. Isilme stood silently, every tiny jerk causing her arm to throb, then walked as he directed her. There might have been a blade at her back, there might not have been; she could not tell, and she did not care. 

As they came through the trees into a large clearing, Isilme's half-closed eyes widened in shock. She should have been prepared for such a sight - after all, she had heard clearly the sounds of battle - but even so, she gasped audibly, stopping in her tracks. 

A/n: next bit half-written; will be up soon. 


	10. Riding On

Woah. WOAH. Have just read back through chapters... I have made *so* many mistakes. And I used to think I had a hold on grammar. O dear. And en plus... It's bad. Really, terribly, truly awful. Eugh. Bad word. But it *is*. Does anyone else ever read back over something they've written, and think: 'I can't believe I ever allowed you to upload that...'? I guess that's what leaving a year's gap before continuing does to you.   
  
Now, I would like to say some stuff, which the majority of you probably won't find at all interesting. Majority? Heh. Anyway. I've been an idiot recently. I've done nothing with my life. In particular, I've done nothing literary... apart from that exam a couple of weeks ago. What was it again? O yeah, the English Language GCSE. Quite exciting, that was. ^_~ Anyway. I reason that I do homework, and I hate it - but even though I enjoy this kind of writing, I don't do it. Why??(Nobody mention that homework is compulsory. I know. I've been there and back. Wait, that was wrong. I've been there and I'm STILL there. Dammit. Anyway, I merely neglect to point that out for the sake of this argument, which is, in effect, going nowhere. Shoot the fool now.)   
  
I'm going to get back to this, and write more. Dammit, I will! This intro's starting to sound a LOT like the past one. Willpower? I've searched, but I cannae seem to find any within myself. So... I'll just have to work harder at it.   
  
If that didn't make sense, don't worry. I'm sorry to waste your time. It just helps me to get my thoughts out in writing, sometimes. And make excuses for myself. Bad habit of mine, I'm afraid. My head's a bit addled at the moment... What with... the TWO TOWERS PREMIERE SO SOON!!!   
  
Woo. So, I am very happy. And now I shall write. ^.^   
  
Sorry, need a postscript here - forgot summat. Just to apologise... The cut-off for the last chapter was a really, really bad point to do so at. Wasn't meant to be a cliffhanger... Sorry.  


Chapter 10: Riding on 

At least ten men lay dead on the ground, some with arrows protruding from their bodies, some with dark blood oozing from wounds. Another five or more were injured, being tended to by their comrades and a few Elves. So they had been fighting on the side of her captors. It seemed it had been a lucky thing for them, that the Elves had appeared when they did. Isilme felt sick, staggering backwards a little as her mind took in its first real experience of death. Never had it been so near to her. And so many, in such a short time. The man who had brought her into the clearing ignored the stricken girl as she took in the bloody scene. 

It was hard to tell from which side the fallen were, as they all wore dark, travelworn garb, but Isilme could see that the group of her attacker was quite strongly diminished. He himself stood talking to who appeared to be the leader of the Elven band, his muddied face showing his fatigue, yet still stern and grim. A few of the new arrivals stood by their leader, and the rest either tended to the injured or scouted the ground for their lost arrows, bows in hands and faces calm and unreadable. The man who had brought Isilme over stood behind the Elven leader, waiting for them to finish speaking with his master, but he spotted them, and nodded, excusing himself. 

'To the horses, Alkir. We were just finishing.' He turned to the rest of his men, raising his voice. 'You know we did not slay them all. They may return. We will leave immediately. Some of Galdor's men will remain to bury the dead. Pack up and help those who are injured to the horses. Be wary. We ride to the Elvencity!' 

The men rose, some with an air of sadness, leaving their fallen comrades with soft words of passing. The others were grim. The Elves whistled to their steeds who appeared quickly and quietly through the trees, fair beasts, both saddle and bitless, and mounted swiftly. The group moved off slowly through the trees. 

~*~*~*~*~ 

Isilme sighed. Again she was bound, and on horseback . Her whole body ached from the bumpy rhythm of the animal below her, whose uneven movement was far removed from the smooth gait of the powerful beast from days before. Her right arm was ice cold to the touch, and going numb as she lay across it; at least it was no longer painful. She had by now given up trying to understand what was happening - Elves aiding humans? She knew their tendency was to leave mortals to fight their own battles. She could not think straight. It was all too confusing. 

The journey was tedious - she could neither sleep nor even close her eyes for fear she would fall off, for her still-tied hands were clutching the saddle tightly, almost the only thing keeping her on. Every so often she would raise her head slightly to see some of the Elves riding with the group regarding her with curious expressions. She ignored them - in truth, had she not been a prisoner, she would have been doing likewise. As it was, her position was rather too awkward for her to be worrying about the fact that the sharp crystal eyes of the inhabitants of Mirkwood were upon her. 

They had been riding through the woods for a while now, and their surroundings had changed dramatically since the start of the journey. Now in the place of the light ash and oak were great tall trees, stretching up to the sky and blotting out most of the sunlight to create a dark, foreboding atmosphere. Yet this did not seem to worry the comapny's leader and his men, nor the Elves who presumably were used to the dark of the forest. They talked more now, their voices becoming cheerful. They must have been nearing their goal. 

Where exactly they were bound, Isilme did not know - she remembered that Northern Mirkwood was home to a great number of Elves, but nothing more. Wishing that she had questioned her parents further on the exact whereabouts of the city, her thoughts fell to Henneth, and fair Ithilien. More than anything she wished now to see the green boughs of her homeland; the White City was but a far-off dream. To sit on the banks of a silver stream glistening in the sunlight, to gallop, laughing with pleasure along the long forest tracks... What of Mirlome? She would probably have found her way out onto the plains now. At least the horse was free... 

Tired, uncomfortable, and more or less resigned to her captivity - at least for now - Isilme lay still, gripping the saddle tightly, and waited for the journey to end. 


End file.
